<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Phobos by calixte</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24394642">Phobos</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/calixte/pseuds/calixte'>calixte</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Prodigal Son (TV 2019)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Drabble Collection, Other, Wordcount: 100</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 06:54:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,620</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24394642</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/calixte/pseuds/calixte</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>collection of 100-word flash fiction inspired by phobias. mostly malcolm-centric, occasionally another character thrown in there.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Arachnophobia </p><p>Martin’s nitrile-covered fingertips skimmed over his skin like spider legs, tickling and terrible. Malcolm barely breathed as the gloves drug over his inguinal ligament, smoothing over his obliques careful and steady, caressing his waist. The sharp tip of a newly-opened scalpel blade bit into his skin like fangs sinking in and he sucked in a stuttering gasp, body bucking like his spine was being twisted right out of him. The blade dripped a clear liquid back onto him, burning as it slid into the tiny gaping puncture wound Martin had left like a devilish tongue licking up poison.</p><p>Spider venom. </p><p>---</p><p>Ophidiophobia</p><p>He loved snakes. The smooth scales, the gentle tickling tongues, the flat eyes; they didn’t judge him. Malcolm watched Mercedes slide up his arm, curiously smell-tasting him until she got to his cheek. It made him smile and murmur to her softly, setting her down near the thawed mouse he’d deposited in her terrarium. It was fascinating to watch a snake eat, how it devoured its prey whole and only slowly digested it, savoring as the death of prey gave them sustenance and life.</p><p>He just couldn’t help but see Martin’s face with that bright, manic, <i>awful</i> smile baring his teeth.</p><p>---</p><p>Acrophobia</p><p>The sidewalk so <i>very</i> far below seemed to spin as Malcolm blinked, suspended by his wrist, the leather strap fastened to it from the wall bracket. He was three stories up, he realized dimly, hanging outside his bedroom window in the steely New York morning sunlight. His mother was standing below him amongst the shattered glass, staring horrified up at him for a second that lasted an eternity. </p><p>He would have been dead without the restraints. </p><p>Malcolm hated that they couldn’t keep his demons--his <i>father</i>--at bay, but they kept him tethered, safe when nothing and no one else could. </p><p>---</p><p>Agoraphobia</p><p>People were problematic. They looked at him with pity when they didn’t look at him with distrust and derision for being <i>The Surgeon’s Son</i>. Malcolm avoided crowds, keeping his head down, eyes fixed on the sidewalk. It served well enough, not having to meet people’s eyes and catalogue the possible motivation behind every tic and glance aside. </p><p>Malcolm stopped abruptly at the pair of shoes he recognized, standing still in his path; he tracked them up a pair of creased dress slacks, a soft sweater, a neatly-trimmed beard. </p><p>Gil Arroyo was the one person whose face he never minded seeing.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Astraphobia</p><p>The sky broke open in a bright, blinding flash, followed swiftly by a *crack* that made his windows rattle and Malcolm jump, trembling. A roaring rumble played melody over the harsh drumming of heavy, fat raindrops against glass. He wasn’t in bed, despite the hour; he was sitting on his couch, the leather warm from body heat and the blanket carelessly tossed over his legs. </p><p>Not even Sunshine was lulling him to sleep over this storm, though she trilled and peeped softly from her shoulder perch, tugging a lock of hair with her beak as if trying to comfort him. </p><p>---</p><p>Basiphobia</p><p>Actually falling asleep is often the trickiest part of the night for Malcolm; he always stays so tightly wound during the day, a compact array of muscle and neuroses dressed in nice clothes as a disguise. Even as he lays back in his bed with soft sheets and pillows and a blanket that’s just warm enough, he relaxes and his muscles unwind. But his mind still slips into the horrifying dreams where he’s falling, where chances are as good as not that he’d jerk awake in fright, arms and legs tense. </p><p>The concrete sidewalk below is all too familiar now. </p><p>---</p><p>Trypanophobia</p><p>Malcolm never looks at needles. He wouldn’t tell people he was *afraid* of them, but after Martin Whitly, *The Surgeon*, he dislikes them quite a lot. He doesn’t watch when he ends up at the hospital. He never looks at the IVs stuck in his arm, even if they’re just running to a banana bag--he always gets hooked to one of those despite his protests about his nutrition.</p><p>He swallows back the bitter thickness gathering at the back of his tongue when the needle slides through skin. The nurse smiles, aiming at reassuring. “It’s okay,” she says. </p><p>It’s really not.</p><p>---</p><p>Gephyrophobia</p><p>He doesn’t cross bridges anymore. Not unless he has to, and he doesn’t look out over the water, only steadfastly down. He moves in jerks, mechanically, and Gil notices as he drives Malcolm back onto the island, how his face pales and he looks down, focusing on the footwell of the car. Gil takes his hand off the gear shift, laying it heavy and warm and comforting on Malcolm’s knee.</p><p>Malcolm says nothing, but Gil knows what he’s thinking about: hands grasping, desperate, to the rails, white knuckled and begging to be saved. He knows Malcolm is thinking about Eve.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Last one inspired by and written for May dearest.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Somniphobia</p><p>Malcolm tilts his head back and the last drop of liquid passes his lips from the can mouth. It’s bitterly false-tasting, the caffeine barely disguised by the vaguely fruitlike flavoring. It’s the third energy drink he’s downed in the last hour and he can feel his heart hammering against his ribs. He’s going to give himself palpitations, but between the coffee and the sugar and other stimulants he isn’t going to sleep. </p><p>His phone is still lying unlocked on the counter where Martin had called him last, and where Malcolm had ignored it. What better to keep him from sleeping? </p><p>---</p><p>Iatrophobia</p><p>Nitrile gloves, sterile facemasks, bleached-white coats. Malcolm could see them behind closed eyelids, could feel his blood pressure rising and his pulse thudding, making his eyelashes quiver. He hated hospitals. Hated most doctors, too, the clinical detachment they worked through, the feeling they inspired like he was laid bare on display. </p><p>He didn’t have to ask where the feeling had come from, grown from; everyone who knew him could have pointed to Martin, and they wouldn’t be wrong. </p><p>Gil, beside him, squeezed his uninjured hand, stroking up to his forearm gently. “It’s okay, city boy. I’m right here with you.” </p><p>---</p><p>Cibophobia</p><p> </p><p>Jessica watched her son slowly, painstakingly eat at last, even if it was only the simplest of foods. The clear broth soup was at least some kind of sustenance, and as she saw Malcolm tip the bowl up and his throat work, the tension in her shoulders unwound. He’d be all right. It would take time, and there would have to be a long, long list of foods Malcolm would retch at the sight or smell of; it was painfully familiar to her, having gone through pregnancy and morning sickness twice. </p><p>But he’d be all right. He could eat again. </p><p>---</p><p>Pogonophobia</p><p>It didn’t take a genius to figure out why Malcolm Bright never skipped more than one day shaving. One only had to look at his father’s arrest picture to see how similar the two would have looked; Martin’s face was more angular, Malcolm had inherited his mother’s rounder features, a fact for which he was quite thankful. It might have made him look perpetually and concerningly young for his job, but the alternative was enough to make him shudder. </p><p>He refused to look like his father, and if that included diet, hairstyle, personal grooming requirements….then so be it.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Kinemortophobia</p><p>Ainsley, Dani, JT, Gil. His mother. They’d always been on his side, always unquestioning in their support of him, even when he’d pull a profile they disagreed with, or when he’d gone to Quantico. He’d always been able to turn to them with nearly anything, but now...but now. He stayed holed up in his loft, trusting the heavily nailed-in boards covering the windows he’d once loved.</p><p>Malcolm adjusted his grip on an axe--he’d had six, once upon a time, among many other things--and counted his heartbeats, slow and steady, listening for any sounds of footsteps shuffling towards his stairs.</p><p>---</p><p>Taphephobia</p><p>Malcolm rarely slept under blankets, even in winter. He’d tolerate Gil cracking jokes about how sensitive he was, but the weight of anything pressing down on him made him feel trapped. Night terrors were bad enough, and being shackled to his bed was another obstacle that, though it helped him in many ways, was difficult in many more. </p><p>Being tangled in a heavy blanket always made him dream of being buried, twisting this way and that in a panic, unable to get out, get *free*, make any noise to alert someone, anyone, to help him.</p><p>He’d stick to lightweight sheets.</p><p>---</p><p>Oneirophobia</p><p>If asked, Malcolm could explain many, many things about dreams: even the names of the Oneiroi, the concept of gods ruling over the realm of sleeping wakefulness. They were said to be the sons of night, the brothers of sleep and death and old age. He could explain the subconscious and intricate workings of them, the way the brain processed the day’s inputs while relaxed.</p><p>If asked he could tell why strange faces appeared in dreams if indeed the human brain could neither imagine nor forget them. </p><p>He could not, however, explain his fears. It would have taken too long. </p><p>---</p><p>Pungophobia</p><p>His shaking fingertips traced the scar at the forward sweep of his ribs, sluicing water and soap over it. Malcolm hated to see the discoloration from where John Watkins had stabbed him, hating to remember the stomach-turning spike of pain blooming and choking off his cry, his airway constricted around nothing. </p><p>It was worse than the one on his thumb, the neat surgical scar lined with careful dots where the stitches had been. He hated feeling the panic rise in his chest like a vise clamping down. </p><p>But he clenched his hand, turned his face into the spray, and exhaled.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>